Above, Beneath, Betwixt, Between
by the real snape
Summary: The biography of Professor Cuthbert Binns, with walk-ons from various Hogwarts staff, such as Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick, Albus Dumbledore, and a great many others.
1. Chapter 1

This isn't a story. I thoroughly dislike stories. Stories are full of things that are either blatantly idiotic or simply not true.

This is history. To be precise: my history. I plan to give you the facts. You can trust facts. You will have to trust me that these are, indeed, facts – there is very little secondary literature for you to check. But since it's the school holidays, and a party, I'll try to present this to you as a story. You all seem to like them so much.

+O+O+O+O+

Once upon a time there was a little boy. His name was James Smith, James Dickinson, James Forsythe, James Carmichael, James Hardcastle, and James Merriweather.

I realise that for a story based on facts this is not an auspicious beginning.

"How can it be," you will ask, "that one little boy has six names?"

Well, the boy's father was a con man. Unfortunately he was not a very good con man, and as a result he was regularly found out. And whenever he was found out, he took his little boy to another town in another part of the country and they started anew, under a different name.

The man always changed his own identity completely – both first and last name. He was enough of a con man to pull it off. He was also intelligent enough to realise that a small boy might either forget to listen to his new first name, or might respond to the wrong one. Therefore James remained James throughout their wanderings.

Until the age of eight, young James accepted this wayfarer's existence with the ease of most children who grow up under strange, even appalling circumstances: it was the only life he knew; therefore it was the only life, period.

Life, according to young James, meant moving to different towns regularly. When that happened, you left behind all the clothes you'd grown out of and all the toys you stopped playing with. And you left behind your name. In the new town there would be new clothes, in due course, and new toys, at some point, and a new name. At once.

There would also be a new set of rooms in a boarding house, for that was how people lived. In boarding houses. Boarding houses had landladies. One had to be polite to them for the first few days, and then very polite.

 _Polite_ meant saying 'yes, Mrs Whatever', and 'please' and 'thank you'. These were simple words, so polite was easy.

 _Very polite_ was less easy. It was longer phrases like _I'd like to stay here forever_ or _You're the nicest lady I've ever met_ or _I wish you were my Mummy_. But James's father always practiced with him before he had to say them, and he usually got them right. "It makes all the difference when it comes to paying the rent," said James's father, and, "we're in this together, aren't we? You're a big help." James was proud to be a big help.

When young James was nearly six years old, he learned that _being very polite_ was another word for _telling stories_.

They had just moved to a new town and a new boarding house, and he was now James Carmichael. And when his father told him to be very polite to Mrs. Jones, for the first time in his life James stopped to think.

Mrs. Jones had a very shrill voice. And her skirt and apron were dirty. Also, there was an unpleasant smell about her. A bit like James's socks on the third day he wore them, and a bit like the drink his father sometimes bought, the one that looked like apple juice but wasn't apple juice at all. As James had found out the day he took a great gulp from his father's glass. The drink had a difficult name, but after James had been very, very sick, he had called it _Yech_. His father had said it was a very good name, for that was exactly what it was for little boys: yech.

Young James did not want a Mummy who smelt of old socks and yech and who was dirty. And he didn't think she was the nicest lady he had ever met, for Mrs. Brown, in the previous boarding house, had been much nicer. Mrs. Brown had smelt of lavender.

James told all this to his father. "I can't say it," he added, "for it isn't true." So his father explained all about stories, and how they often aren't true but make people very happy. That was why James's father told stories – because he liked to make people happy. If young James would tell his story to Mrs. Jones, he would make her happy, too. As long as he never, ever told her it _was_ a story.

James's father was right. When James told his story, Mrs. Jones smiled, called him a 'poor little tyke' and gave him a handful of raisins. The next day he got an apple. A few days after that Mrs. Jones told him a story for his father. She had to repeat it a few times, but then James knew it by heart.

This is how it went: _Father, Mrs. Jones says there's a gentleman downstairs whom you have met before. And he would like nothing better than to see you again and draw your cork. Mrs. Jones says it's what you deserve, too, but it's the wee 'un she's thinking of._

James thought it was a very good story. It had _like nothing better_ in it. And corks were in the bottles his father bought when he wanted to celebrate, and then you had to draw the cork, so that bit was good, too. The last bit was the most difficult – he had no idea what a weeyun was.

But his father didn't seem pleased at all. He muttered angrily and started packing – and they had only just arrived! It worried young James a lot. But then his father ruffled his hair and told him it was a good story after all, and he, James, had told it very well. And now they would go to another town, where he would be James Hardcastle, and the first thing they would do there, after finding a boarding house, would be to buy a brand new set of toy soldiers for the best storyteller in the world.

+O+O+O+O+

James Carmichael had learned to tell stories and began to like them. James Hardcastle, however, learned to hate them.

James Hardcastle had reached the age to go to primary school. He enjoyed it enormously. The previous Jameses had often been rather lonely little boys. Only on one or two occasions there had been children living in the same street.

James Dickinson had had made a few friends and discovered the joys of hide-and-seek, Simple Simon Says, and Cops and Robbers.

James Forsythe, however, had lived in a street with mostly boarding houses full of grown men who went to work all day, and he had been very lonely, indeed.

James Carmichael had found a few boys living near him. They had exchanged names and boyish signs of budding friendship, and he had had a lovely afternoon with his new acquaintance Robert and Robert's real, leather football. He had been the goalie for most of the time, since he was the new boy, but it had still been great. "Next time we'll put Fat Nick in the goal, and you can play on the team," Robert had promised. But there has been no next time, because of the story of the cork and the weeyun.

But James Hardcastle didn't even have to look around for boys to play with: there was a whole classroom full of them. Well, not really full, of course, there were a lot of girls, too. But James knew that life isn't perfect. He knew it better than most people. School was great, and if some people preferred hopscotch to Cops and Robbers, they could simply be ignored.

Even though it was a bit unfair that they got half the playground for their hopscotch and the boys were not allowed to go there, "for you big boys mustn't run over the girls." Girls were perfectly able to fend for themselves, James thought. Especially girls like Elsie, who could kick like a mule and did so, too, whenever a boy annoyed her. James thought that a girl with a kick like Elsie's might be an asset to any football team. But although he hadn't played with other children a lot, he had learned enough of boy rules to know that this was not an idea to say out loud.

But then the other children began to tell stories – such fantastical stories that James had to grin at first. Even his father didn't come up with such good ones. Slowly, however, he began to realise that they weren't stories; they were facts! Nearly all the children in his class had lived in the same house all their lives. They all had a whole house, with a living room and a kitchen and a bedroom for the parents and one for the children, and some children had a whole room for themselves.

And they all had tea with their family – not at a big table for all the boarders. They sat down with their father and mother, and brothers and sisters if they had them. Except for Elsie, whose mother had died, just like James's mother. Elsie lived with her father and a step-mother, who was, according to Elsie "as mean as they make 'em, and she likes her own boys much better than me. They always fight with me, and then I get the blame and I fair hate 'em." That went some way towards explaining Elsie's kicking prowess, but other than that, it was all rather bewildering.

After a few months at school, James was invited to come and play at Peter's house. Peter was now his best friend. James looked forward to it for days. He'd get to see a living room, and Peter's room, too, for Peter didn't have brothers and sisters, and he had a room all to himself.

It was wonderful.

All of it was beyond wonderful.

Peter's room, with lots of toys. And the living room, with beautiful, soft sofas. James was asked to stay for dinner – James's family called it 'dinner', not 'tea'; tea was a separate meal with cake and toast – and it was simply the best evening of his life. "I wish you were my Mummy," he told Peter's mother, and that wasn't a story at all. It was a fact. But Peter's mother still liked it. She smiled and called him a 'poor boy', and told him to come very often.

During that year James spent more and more time with Peter. It was a happy year. True, the boarding house was pretty awful and knowing what a real house and a real living room were like made it worse. But James was in school all day and at Peter's house most afternoons.

His father had gone to thank Peter's parents, and he had become a friend of Peter's father. And then the fathers went 'into business' together. Neither James nor Peter quite knew what that meant. But the result was that they were allowed to spend almost all their time together at Peter's house. "When we're grown up," said Peter, "we'll go in business too, and we'll be together always and always."

"And we can all live in the same house," said James.

"No, silly, you live in a house with your family," said Peter, who knew about such things. "But we'll have houses next to each other."

Life, in short, was absolutely wonderful, and it would remain absolutely wonderful for ever and ever, until they were as old as Peter's grandfather. If it was possible at all for perfectly normal boys to grow so incredibly old, of course.

And then, suddenly, James woke up one morning to a room with suitcases on the bed and a father who told him to sort out his clothes and pack only the things that still fitted him really well.

James screamed and shouted. And when that didn't help, he cried. "Like a sissy," Peter would say, but Peter wasn't there to see him. James just _knew_ they'd move to yet another town, with yet another boarding house and yet another name.

"I won't go!" he shouted. "I won't pack my clothes! Take them out! Out! Out!" And suddenly, all the clothes _were_ out of the suitcase. They were all over the room, and it was a terrible mess. But James's father merely sighed and said that it was to be expected.

That was a very strange thing about James's father, by the way. Whenever James did something _really_ bad, like the clothes, or the time he smashed the ugly purple vase, his father wouldn't give him a beating like other boys got. He'd just say it was to be expected.

Which it wasn't. Not at all. James still didn't know why the vase had broken – he hadn't touched it. Couldn't touch it, even; he was too small to reach the shelf where it stood. But it had shattered, just as James had cried he wanted to break it, and his father hadn't been angry. He had just said that James should never, ever, talk about it.

James didn't know why the clothes had flown out of the suitcase, either, but he was too unhappy to care. It was the most awful morning of his life.

And then it got worse.

They were already at the station, and James's father had bought the tickets, "for a lovely train ride, aren't you a lucky boy?" James did not feel lucky at all, and then Peter's father came running to the platform, with Peter on his heels.

Peter's father shouted at James's father, calling him a liar, a cheat, and a con man. And Peter … Peter shouted, too. He shouted that they had made his mother cry and they would have to sell the house and he, Peter, would lose his room. "All because of your father and his stories! I hate you, hate you, hate you!"

It was during that train-ride (which was anything but lovely) that young James had a revelation. A very unhappy one – not at all the sort of thing that makes you shout _Eureka_ and run around stark naked. Which, given they were on a train, was probably for the best.

He had spent the first part of the journey thinking of Peter and the things Peter had said. And he had asked his father whether they were true. He father had told him that of course they weren't; Peter had misunderstood things. That might be possible. The world of grown-ups was often pretty confusing, and mistakes could be made.

Then he realised that Peter's father had said the same things. And then, suddenly, he had remembered Mrs. Jones and what had happened when they left her boarding house. He hadn't thought about her since the day his father had bought him the toy soldiers he had had to leave behind that very morning. But now he remembered her and the story of the gentleman who wanted to draw his father's cork.

At that moment James suddenly understood two things.

The first thing was that he had once actually been the sort of silly little kid who didn't know what _drawing someone's cork_ meant – amazing, but there it was. Every boy used that expression, yet James, two-year-younger James, had not known it.

The second thing was that Peter and his father were right: James's own father was a con man. And a cheat and a liar. That's why the gentleman had wanted to beat him up. That was – of course that was, it just had to be – the reason they had moved so often.

James sat in the train and stared at his father. And before his eyes, the friendly, familiar face of the man who told stories to make other people happy changed into the shifty expression of a cheat who told stories to ruin other people's lives.

And now he had ruined his son's life.

+O+O+O+O+

In the new town James, who was now James Merriweather, was sent to a new school. He knew he had to make new friends, and he knew that being a sulking sour-face wouldn't help. But he couldn't. He hated all the girls for not being Elsie, and he hated all the boys for not being his old friends. And there could never be a new Peter in this stupid, stupid place. But most of all, he despised his father and his stories. And when you despise your father, and love him at the same time, and feel all angry with yourself for despising him and then all angry with yourself for loving him, you become a sour-face. There's no helping it.

Once again, James became a very lonely boy.

There was one difference, however.

He was now a lonely boy who could read. And the only half-way decent thing about the new school was that it had a library, and his teacher – if James was totally honest, his teacher wasn't completely awful either – his teacher had told him that he could read as many books as he liked.

"Do you like stories?" asked Mr. Pargeter.

"I hate 'em," said Peter. "Sir."

Mr. Pargeter didn't seem to notice the rather belated 'Sir', but instead gave him a book with a rather fetching cover and the words _A History of Britain_ on it. "Try this," he said. "It's not silly stories at all – it's all true."

James tried the book and loved it. Mr. Pargeter showed him two whole shelves in the library, full of history books. James read them all – or nearly all.

He was getting perilously close to the last book on the second shelf when something exiting happened at home. A letter arrived. His father brought it up to their room, and told him it was for him, for James.

Which was odd, because the letter was addressed to someone else entirely.

But James's father told him the letter was his, and then James heard the most fantastically unbelievable story ever, which was saying rather a lot.

James's father told him his Mummy had been a witch. Not an evil witch like the ones in fairy-tale books, but a very, very good one. And she had learned it all at this school called _Hogwarts_ , and now James would go there and learn all about magic, too. It was a boarding school, and yes, that was a bit like a boarding house. There, too, James would eat at a long table and share a room, but this was just for children – his roommates, the others at the table, they would all be boys and girls just like him.

And he would stay there for seven years.

Well, that settled things. Stay for seven years? He'd never lived anywhere for that long. Obviously the story was a lie.

Then came the day they went to get his school things. James had to tell his father where the place was, for his father couldn't see it. That was odd; the building was as plain as the nose on your face. _The Leaky Cauldron_ it was called. And then the landlord took them to a wall, and the wall opened, and … and …

It _was_ magic. It was the most magical thing James had ever seen. His father bought clothes for him – rather funny ones – and a cauldron and _books_. Lots of books, and they all looked really interesting. And then his father said he could choose a gift. An animal, perhaps? He was allowed a cat, or a rat, or an owl, or a toad.

But James said he'd rather have something else, if it wasn't too expensive. From the bookshop. They had this book, and it was a very big one, and it was called _Hogwarts, a History_ and he wanted it more than anything in the world.

James's father bought it, and James read it from cover to cover and then again. And again.

By the time he boarded the Hogwarts Express, he did, indeed, believe that he'd go to Hogwarts for seven whole years. And that his mother had been a witch, which made him a wizard.

And that his name was, in actual fact, Cuthbert Binns.


	2. Chapter 2

That was the first part of my history. I hope it was enough like a story to you. It's rather long, but that can't be helped. To understand what happened to Cuthbert Binns, you have to know about Young James.

I'll now speed things up a bit. These days, people just don't have the patience for all the facts of history. It's regrettable, but it's not something I can change.

Cuthbert's Hogwarts years were fairly unremarkable. He made some friends. He fitted in reasonably well. There were several children like him, who had never been part of the magical world before, so he was not alone in that. He was alone in having a con man father and a boarding house upbringing, but his years with Peter's family had taught him enough to blend in, and the others didn't notice anything amiss. Cuthbert himself always knew, of course.

Cuthbert never was much of a Quidditch player. He didn't really like flying. But he liked that the wizarding world put girls on the team. Elsie would have enjoyed Hogwarts, he thought. These days, Cuthbert could think of Elsie and how she would have made a fantastic Beater, and smile at the memory. He loved watching the matches, and he loved the glorious tea that was served afterwards. In short, he loved living at Hogwarts. Cuthbert Binns had found a place where he could grow roots.

He was a fairly capable student, who excelled in History of Magic and Charms, and who did well enough in other subjects. Except for Potions. He thought it messy and smelly – and the ingredients were just about the _yech_ est things he had ever seen.

But all in all life was good. Except for the summer holidays. Cuthbert and his father didn't get along very well. If truth be told (and truth must always be told) his father tried harder than he did. It wasn't until after his O.W.L.s that things changed somewhat for the better.

That summer Cuthbert came home one evening and found his father reading one of his magical history books. "This is fascinating," his father said.

"It's what I want to do," Cuthbert answered, "I want to study History of Magic." His father was thrilled. For the first time in years they had a real conversation. About Cuthbert's love for history and the sort of job he might get later. "My son a teacher, fancy that," said his father and told him he had some savings for Cuthbert's education, and that he would help him as much as he could.

That year, when Cuthbert's father took him to the Hogwarts express, they shook hands with more warmth than before. Suddenly his father gave him a rather shy hug. And Cuthbert hugged him back.

Cuthbert was glad he had hugged his father. And he was even gladder of it when, a few weeks later, Headmaster Black called him into his office and told him his father had died unexpectedly of a heart attack.

His father's savings combined with a scholarship saw Cuthbert through University, and just before his final exams he received a letter from Headmaster Black. The letter expressed confidence in the outcome of those exams, and the offer of a teaching position. Cuthbert, who had fully expected to spend years as a private tutor to magical children, was overjoyed.

Hogwarts was home.

He would go home. He would be among people he knew and trusted. He would make an honest living. He would have unlimited access to all the books in the library, and he would get a set of rooms of his own.

And, best of all, he would see Helena again.

Helena, who was beautiful and clever and kind. Who had had a childhood as difficult as Cuthbert's own, though for totally different reasons. Who understood all about loving a parent and wishing with all your heart to be different from them. Helena, who had comforted him when his father died, and who had become a real friend.

Helena, whom he had almost failed to see for his first six years at Hogwarts.

Mind, nearly everyone failed to see Helena. If they spoke of her at all, it was mostly in negatives. She was less entertaining than Nearly Headless Nick. She was less jolly than the Fat Friar. She was, Merlin be thanked, a lot less scary than the Bloody Baron.

For six years Cuthbert, like his fellow students, had only seen a Grey Lady. A very grey lady, indeed.

Until the night he had learnt of his father's death. He had been sitting in one of the deep window seats of the library. With the curtains closed it was almost like a little room, and it was Cuthbert's favourite place at Hogwarts – the closest he had ever been to a room of his own.

The Grey Lady had floated through the curtain. "I'm sorry to hear about your father," she had said.

"I'm not," said Cuthbert, who was just remembering the scene on the platform with Peter and his father.

"Or rather, I am," he added, thinking of that last hug at a very different platform.

"I know," said the Grey Lady. "It just churns you up inside, until you feel sore and raw all over."

Which was exactly how it felt. Suddenly, Cuthbert found he could, in fact, tell the truth and the whole truth about his father. He blurted out his entire story. When, after a very long time – it felt like several hours – he finally stopped talking, he felt as if he'd just had a lovely bath. He felt completely warm, relaxed, and at peace with the world. And totally, utterly, blissfully clean.

From that day on, Helena and Cuthbert (for somewhere during that long confession, the Grey Lady had become Helena) often spent time together. Helena wasn't grey at all. She was quiet, yes, but so was he. But she had a keen interest in history. And when she talked about her passion, drawing and illumination, her whole face lit up, and she glowed in colours more beautiful than even the Limbourg brothers had ever used.

"That's not really true, you know it isn't," said Helena. "I'm always grey."

"Not to me you aren't," said Cuthbert.

And now he would see Helena again. Live in the same building, even. With _his very own rooms_ in which to receive her. As soon as he had his final results, he boarded the Hogwarts Express.

For Cuthbert Binns, life was about to begin.

+O+O+O+O+

Cuthbert's first years as a teacher were like every young teacher's first years. The least said about them, the better.

But gradually he got used to teaching, preparation began to take up a little less of his time, and he learned to accept that marking is always there.

He did lose some of his high ideals, though. Which young teacher doesn't?

What Cuthbert had wanted to do was teach his students the facts of history. As precisely, as objectively as possible. And then, as they grew a bit older, they could examine those facts and see how they had been turned into stories. And how the stories people tell are false and nonsensical. Often biased, often told to excuse one's own behaviour or to exclude others. But that a lot could be learned from these stories: why are they told, what do they want to achieve, what do they tell about human nature.

The first time he tried to teach this, the essence of his subject, was with a group of third years. He spent several lessons explaining the word _bias_ and included the chocolate frog card of Hengist of Woodcroft in the final tests for that year. It was an easy starting point: the card spoke not just of the founding of Hogsmeade, but also of Hengist's victory against the rebellious Scots and Picts. No doubt his students would manage a small essay on that story?

It was a sad disappointment. Most of his students weren't interested in truth. "We all know he won against those rebels; people just never want Hufflepuffs to be heroes," some students wrote, underlining their essays with heavy black and yellow lines.

"But those Picts were trying to cause a _war_ in _England_ , they had to be stopped," wrote another, who had managed to miss both Cuthbert's explanation of the use of the word 'rebel' and the respective locations of Scotland and England.

The only one who did well was Miss McGonagall. She had written an in-depth and well-formulated essay, and Cuthbert smiled as he wrote a large _E_ on her parchment. _An excellent analysis of the bias on Hengist's card, he added. But the other side has biased stories, too. If you had been aware of that bias, it would have been an 'Outstanding'._

The next day Miss McGonagall handed him a rewrite of her essay. "I think we may have more reason to be biased than the Sassenachs, Sir," she said. "But I do see your point." Miss McGonagall got the _Outstanding_ she deserved.

Miss McGonagall's essay gave Cuthbert a spark of hope, and Helena's support turned it into a brave little flame. "It's wonderful what you try to do," she said, as they sat in his room that evening. "But you're asking people to challenge their beliefs, to look critically at themselves. It makes them uncomfortable. The biased story is so much easier. It's the first time you've tried this, and already one student has really grasped what you want. I think you've done a fantastic job. Don't be discouraged!"

Cuthbert went to bed a happy man. He rose the next morning to a summons from Headmaster Black. I'll spare you the drivel about how well Cuthbert was settling in, what an asset he was to the staff. The essence of Black's message was: "We've received several Owls with parental complaints – along the lines of 'shameful belittling of a true patriot, a great hero'. I agree with you in principle, believe me, I do. But perhaps we should realise that our students are a bit … too young … for your approach? Keep to the facts, dear boy. Just keep to the facts."

In the end, it was Helena who found a solution that saved both Cuthbert's sanity and his job. "If Headmaster Black says the third years are too young," she said, "you simply have to wait a bit. Teach them only facts until they've passed their O.W.L.s. The N.E.W.T. students are the ones who are really interested anyhow. That's when you can start the proper work."

"You're as wise as you are beautiful," said Cuthbert. And he settled into a routine of facts, facts, and nothing but facts for the first five years.

True, there were very few students who were interested enough to continue with History of Magic. But those few (sometimes just two or three in a year) made Cuthbert's teaching life worthwhile. And Helena brightened up his evenings. The years passed peaceably.

That is all you'll hear about Cuthbert's career in this history. You might argue that it is not even very relevant. True. The salient part is Helena's support, and the warm feelings they had for one another. But I wanted you to understand something of Cuthbert as a teacher. I know you've heard a bit about it from other sources, but … well, I don't have to explain the words 'biased point of view' to you, do I? 


	3. Chapter 3

It will not surprise you that the relationship between Cuthbert and Helena slowly turned into love. Helena had understood her feelings fairly quickly. She had liked Cuthbert even when he was still a student, but it had not been love then. The idea of a relationship with a student was anathema for her. But when Cuthbert returned from University as a young man, she began to see him in a different light. And as Cuthbert grew older, the age difference mattered less.

You will understand, of course, that ghosts are not 'frozen', so to speak, on the day they die. Physically they are, of course, and Helena will look like a young lady forever. But they remain in this world, they talk, they interact, they have experiences, and they learn from them. As we all do. The Helena who fell in love with Cuthbert, therefore, wasn't a young girl, but a grown woman. A very mature woman, true, but the daily contact with young, lively people kept her own mind lively and interested in new things.

Cuthbert needed a bit more time to realise how he felt about Helena. Even a man who understands the word very well can have a bias or two of his own. For several years, Cuthbert thought people simply couldn't fall in love with ghosts; therefore what he felt wasn't love.

It was a mistake anyyone might have made, even clever people such as yourselves. Cuthbert wouldn't have been Cuthbert, though, if he had not seen his error. It was the third big revelation in his life – after understanding what his father had done and knowing that he wanted to be a historian. And this time he did feel like shouting _Eureka_ and running around starkers.

But of course he didn't do it. There are better ways to court a woman than to flaunt your meat-and-two-veg with your hair a wet mess and foam on your nose.

Instead, Cuthbert made a lot of effort for their next evening together. He bought fresh flowers, Helena's favourite ones, pink lilies. She couldn't smell them very well, but she loved their delicate hues, the various shades of pink, and the little burgundy dots in their hearts. As we have mentioned, Helena's passion was drawing, and she rejoiced in colours.

He also put on her favourite music. There is a common misconception that ghosts only like horrible music. This prejudice is based on just one story of one boy who was invited to a Deathday with a dreadful band. I dare say you've all, at some point in your life, been to a party where the band was ghastly. It doesn't mean there's no beautiful music to be had.

Helena had a particular fondness for Purcell, and Purcell is what Cuthbert chose for that evening.

Thus everything was ready for an evening of romance. When Helena arrived, she enjoyed the flowers and the music, as Cuthbert knew she would. They talked of this and that, and Cuthbert cunningly brought the conversation to the many years they'd known each other, and the great friendship between them. And then he took a deep breath, gathered all his courage, and went down on one knee.

"Helena, dearest," he said, "It has taken me a very long time to understand this, perhaps an unforgivably long time. But what I feel for you is more, much more than just friendship. You brighten my days, you are my support and my anchor, you're the reason I want to get up in the mornings. You're beautiful and wise and funny, and everything a man could dream of. I love you."

And if you could have seen Helena at that moment, you would have thought her beautiful, too. There was nothing remotely grey about her.

But while Cuthbert keenly appreciated Helena's beauty, he had an even keener appreciation for her mind. She was nothing if not rational.

"Oh, Cuthbert …" she said. And gave him a smile that told him exactly what he wanted to know. "What you say is wonderful. It's the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me. In fact, it's the most wonderful moment of my life. But we must be realistic."

It was not, of course, the most wonderful moment _of her life_ , technically speaking. But ghosts use the words 'my life' rather like a blind person might use, _I see your point_. Because it's an easy way to put things, a common expression.

"I am realistic," said Cuthbert. "And happy beyond words. You love me! The rest is just practical problems, my dear. We love each other!" He felt like running up and down the Great Hall, shouting, "she loves me! She loves me!" And like drawing a big red heart with an arrow and the names _Helena_ and _Cuthbert_ in the sky, big enough that all of Hogsmeade – nay, make that all of Scotland – might see it. (It's proof of Cuthbert's own realism that he briefly considered _all the world_ and rejected the notion as impossible even for one who excels at Charms.)

He also wanted to sit right there and gaze and gaze and gaze at Helena, and that's what he did.

Meanwhile Helena the rational mentioned children. Cuthbert admitted that he had thought about that, for quite a long time. "And yes, if it would have been possible, I would have wanted children with you. Not just children, period, but your children. Our children. Then again, there's no guarantee, is there? If I would chose a girl who isn't a ghost – and I can't think of anything more ghastly than checking out females for their child-bearing hips – she still might not be able to conceive. Or I might not. Or we just might not be a very fertile combination," said Cuthbert. "If I were to abandon a wife because she's barren, the world would think me a cad. And rightly so. The only difference is, I know up front where I stand. I still want you."

"And then there's sex," said Helena.

"I should hope so," said Cuthbert.

Helena made all the obvious points about a non-corporeal body that just floats through other people. Cuthbert, who could be quite unconventional for a dried-up fact-spouting prune (his students' judgment, not Helena's) said it gave a whole new dimension to the word _penetration_.

At which they both giggled, for they could always find things to laugh about together. Helena agreed that most people who start with sex have no idea of what it's really going to be, and have to try and practice and find out what they like. And she giggled some more and told Cuthbert a very funny story – based on facts, of course – of two students who had taken a book from the restricted section that can best be described as the Wizarding Kama Sutra. They had experimented freely, right up to the point where their N.E.W.T level skills proved insufficient and they got stuck in a very, very awkward position.

They had been covered with a sheet and Levitated to the Sick Ward, where the healer had had quite a job to separate them. It was all the school talked about for weeks, and in every dormitory people had put themselves under sheets, in various positions, while their mates judged whether that was the shape they had seen or not.

"What happened to the couple afterwards?" asked Cuthbert.

"The girl was taken home by her family, who considered her a fallen woman. The Headmaster thought the same, by the way. But he kept the boy, because it's different for men, of _course_ ," said Helena, still miffed after more than a century. "But he was a good lad. He did a brilliant exam, and as soon as he had a job, he went to fetch his girl. They lived happily ever after and had eight children."

"I think I just might inform young Mister Weasley and Miss Prewett of those facts," said Cuthbert. "The part about the sheet, I mean. They've always been mischievous little devils, both of them, and now they're mischievous little devils who are madly in love. It may make them think twice about experiments."

"Perhaps they will live happily ever after and have eight children, too," said Helena. "It's really rather sweet, those two. But I do see why you don't want them to start procreating while they're still here."

"I wish them every happiness indeed, but heaven forbid they beget eight children," said Cuthbert. "What if they inherit the mischievous streak from both sides? Please Merlin, not _eight_ children."

Which shows how very, very careful you must be when you make a wish. The Universe just might listen.

It will hardly surprise you that in the end Cuthbert was successful in his courtship. Helena and he were very happy together.

I will not bother you with too much information, Not _every_ fact needs to be told. But the more imaginative among you may consider the word _frisson_ and its connotations. A _frisson_ can be a wonderful thing, and a ghost who learns just where to put her hands can give great pleasure.

They experimented with the simple _frisson_ , just as it stands, so to speak (and it wasn't the only thing to stand either), the _frisson_ with warming spells, the _frisson_ in a hot bad, or in front of a fire.

And you've all heard that a ghost floating through gives a human a cold sensation, but you've understood, I suppose, that the ghost feels things, too, when traversing a warm, solid, human body? You're not the kind of people who fail to see anything beyond their own point of view, surely?

Ghosts are certainly able to experience pleasure, and if a man enjoys taking his time and can cast a warming charm on his hands – or on any body part, really – even when his mind is focused on other things entirely …

Helena and Cuthbert were very happy together, let's keep it at that.

There were, however, three things that bothered Cuthbert. The first one was fairly easy to solve. All it took was the help of an expert, and he knew just the person.

"I know I will love you forever," Cuthbert said, and he was speaking literally, too, for he thought metaphors were only slightly better than stories. "So how do I set about it? I'll want to return to you. How does one do it?"

Helena smiled. "It's easy," she said. "It's the easiest thing in the world, if you really want it. I'll tell you how it happened for me.

"When I died, it felt like fainting at first. Only, I'm afraid, much worse. Fainting is like falling into darkness, but it was as if I was _hurled_ to a black space, right after I had felt the pain of the dagger. But it only lasted for a very brief time. Then I found myself lying flat on the ground; I didn't know how long I had been unconscious. But it didn't feel as if I was dead. Not that I know how that feels, of course.

"I opened my eyes, and I saw a sort of mist – but not really a mist. There were clouds, but not clouds that were meant to be clouds. It was more as if they were waiting to become something.

"I sat up, gingerly, the way one does when one has fainted. To see whether everything worked. It did. I put my hand to the stab wound – only, there wasn't one. I thought it very odd. I could see there was no wound because I was naked, but I didn't think that was odd in the least.

"Then I looked around me again, and the clouds took on a shape and I realised where I was: in one of the rooms in Hogwarts castle. It was a room that had been very important for me. I had taken some major decisions there. And the funny thing was, the room suddenly had two doors whereas previously there had been just one.

"I stood there and understood, somehow, that I was supposed to go through that second door. I had used the first one to come in, obviously. I mean, I didn't remember doing it, but how else would I have got there?

"And now I had to take the second door to go out. I _knew_ it would all be over then. Don't ask me how, I just _knew_. But I didn't want it to be over. I felt it was the most unjust thing in the world. In that very room, just weeks before, I had felt that my life was about to begin.

"It couldn't be over now.

"It just couldn't.

"So I turned and took the other door, the one I had taken before, the one that would lead me through Hogwarts, through the gates, on the road to a new life, as it had done before.

"That's all."

"Will I recognize this room?" asked Cuthbert. "Which door is the right one – the one that leads to you? You must show it to me."

"Oh, it may not be a room for you. It was a room, _that_ room, for me, because of the major decisions. What you see is a place where your life changed. It's different for everyone – Nick saw something else entirely, and Friar Tuck has his own version, too. It's very personal. This is why I can't speak of what they saw even to you. They're not my stories to tell."

By the way, when you read the books, you did understand, I suppose, that _Fat Friar_ is merely a nick-name? Children will call their teachers names. But while no student in their right mind would call Professor Snape _Greasy Git_ in his hearing, they are less considerate when it comes to ghosts. The number of times Nicholas has to remind them it's _Sir Nicholas_ …

Friar Tuck doesn't really mind. He's an awfully jolly chap, and he possesses that rare quality of being able to tell a funny story against himself. You should hear the one about the fight with Robin, and how he had to carry him across the brook. Hilarious. Of course he has no regard for facts, and I would not recommend you to trust anything he says about his days in that forest with the men in green. A historian he is not. But a very pleasant fellow.

But to return to the history I'm telling you, Cuthbert was reassured by Helena's words. When the time came, he would have a choice, and there was no doubt in his heart of what that choice would be.

The other two things that bothered him were less easy to solve. While Helena was very happy with him, there were things in her life that saddened her. In order to understand this, you must know a bit about her history.

And I do mean _history_ and not that dreadful tale that goes round. I know she has sometimes told it herself. After her death no-one wanted to hear the truth, and she has stopped bothering centuries ago. But here are the facts.

Helena is the daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, one of the founders of Hogwarts. Her relationship with her mother had certain similarities with Cuthbert's childhood: her mother loved her, certainly, as Cuthbert's father loved him, and Helena had early childhood memories of that love.

When she was old enough to go to school, things changed. There was the difficulty of being in the school that is run by a parent: the other students don't trust you, there are accusations of being a teacher's pet on the one side, and of not being loyal to your mother on the other.

Rowena wanted her daughter to be as clever as she was herself, and she wanted her to be her successor. Now, Helena was very intelligent, an intelligence that has matured into great wisdom over the years. But a second Rowena she was not. And she had no desire at all to teach.

What Helena wanted was to draw. I've told you about her passion for drawing and illumination, and that was what she wanted to do with her life: illuminate books. Helena wanted to set up her own illumination workshop, with both magical and Muggle customers – carefully kept apart from each other, of course, for in those days magical people suffered greatly from persecution.

Rowena wouldn't hear of it. During her Hogwarts years, Helena had to hide her drawing materials and parchments. She was very clever in doing so, for while she didn't have Rowena's power, there was nothing wrong with her magical ability and she did have what we now call a Ravenclaw mind – quite literally, in her case.

She found an abandoned room on the seventh floor and turned it into a place that held everything she required and could not be found by anyone unless they really wanted and needed to find it. Since Rowena didn't know it existed, she didn't want to find it. And if she had found the Room when looking for Helena, she would only have seen her daughter, for the Room gives you exactly what you ask – nothing more.

For a very long time Helena tried to convince her mother to let her go. She wanted her blessing and, to be frank, her financial support in setting up for herself. She got neither.

And one night, after a very acrimonious row in which Rowena actually threatened her with a forced marriage if Helena would not give in, Helena decided she had to fend for herself. She would forsake her mother's blessing, but she felt she was entitled to at least some of her inheritance. This is why she took a fairly valuable diadem. A conveniently small thing to carry, yet worth a lot, both in the Wizarding and the Muggle world.

Helena then ran off to Constantinople – the Byzantine Empire was known for its libraries and manuscripts. Have you ever looked at the illuminations in the Paris Psalter? Don't be misled by the name. It's Byzantine, and exquisite.

As you know, she got no further than Albania. Her mother had sent a wizard after her – the Bloody Murderer, for I will _not_ call him a Baron. But Rowena had done something else, too, for she didn't quite trust her messenger. She had cast a spell, a very strong spell, for she was the most powerful witch of not just her age but quite a few ages. It was a spell that would bring her messenger back at once if he would ever betray her.

You know when the Bloody Murderer betrayed Rowena's trust. He was hurled back to Hogwarts, with Helena's dying body in his arms. I personally think Helena was still alive, just, when that happened. She felt the hurling sensation. I think she died upon reaching the castle.

Now, there's one idiosyncrasy in that ridiculous tale you've heard, and I have no doubt you have all spotted it. Ghosts are people who don't want to die, or who are very afraid of dying. Yet you were asked to believe that a man who commits suicide with a dagger is then so afraid to die he becomes a ghost. Ha!

Here are the facts: The Bloody Murderer appeared before Rowena, clutching her daughter's dead body and covered in her blood. Rowena understood what had happened and killed him.

Now, imagine a woman who is faced with her daughter's murderer, and who holds a wand and uses it. Most people will be able to understand the reaction. But while one may feel compassion, it's still murder. Rowena realised this, and she made the body of the murderer disappear. She then buried Helena's body in a secluded spot in the Forbidden Forest. The secret of its exact location has died with her.

However, when Rowena returned to the castle on that fateful night, she found both her daughter and her daughter's murderer among the ghosts. She cursed the Bloody Murderer – there's a reason he never speaks. She then told the other Founders that Helena had left. Helena kept quiet, too. Had she spoken then, Rowena would have been tried for murder and would have lost her school: worse for her than losing her life. In spite of everything, Helena just couldn't do that to her mother.

On her deathbed Rowena came up with the story of the stolen diadem. She had, by then, spent years in a castle haunted by the ghost of her own daughter, for whose death she was partly responsible. And where Helena as a ghost was bound to the stones of the castle, Rowena was bound to its spirit, to all it stood for. Neither could leave.

It must have been a living hell, and it had embittered Rowena. She had grown increasingly angry at Helena, whom she saw as the one who had caused it all by running away. And she was a very wealthy woman who knew she had to dispose of her earthly goods in some way. So she told that whole rigmarole, simply to ensure that everyone knew Helena was dead. And she made a will leaving all her possessions to Hogwarts, the great love of her life.

At that point Helena tried to tell the truth. But after the saintly deathbed of a forgiving mother cruelly deprived of a daughter's love, no-one believed her. Especially since said sainted mother had just left a fortune to the school.

There's facts and there's stories.

Now you know the facts.

And now we can return to Cuthbert and what he wanted. He wanted his beloved Helena to have the life of which she was so cruelly deprived: the life of an artist, an illuminatrix.

And he wanted to give her the other thing she craved: a home outside Hogwarts, away from the memory of her mother, away from the company of her murderer.

Yet ghosts are bound to the stones of their dying place. And they are not corporeal; they cannot hold a quill, and certainly not with any kind of precision.

So Cuthbert Binns had some serious thinking and research in his future. 


	4. Chapter 4

The first solution he came up with was wandless magic. Would it be possible, he asked Helena, to move a quill with wandless magic, rather than with your hands? She rather thought it might, but not with the precision one needed for illumination.

Cuthbert tried and tried, and in the end he had to admit she was right. He could mark his papers with wandless magic, he could put checks to the facts and he could write the grade, and in the end he could even manage a readable, albeit wobbly handwriting. But for Helena's work _wobbly_ wouldn't do.

The solution to the second problem was somewhat easier. Cuthbert had a reasonable income, and a man with such an income and few personal expenses can save enough to buy a small cottage. All one needed to do was take some stones from the castle and put them there. For while Helena was bound to the stones of the castle, there was no rule that said they had to be part of the actual building. A few stones in the cottage, and a few stones in a little wall surrounding the garden, and Bob, as Muggles say, is your uncle.

They began to prepare for retirement. This is where an additional problem cropped up. Helena tried to do things with wandless magic as well. Small things like pulling up a weed or cleaning a floor or window. The sort of thing you need to do when you own a cottage.

But she soon found that this was beyond her. There was one spell she managed in the end: turning the pages of a book. She had used that spell wandlessly thousands of times in her life – I mean her corporeal life here – for she had often had cold hands, and by turning pages wandlessly one can keep one's hands warmly wrapped up in one's robes.

From this our two Ravenclaws deducted that a person's magic becomes as un-solid as their body after death, and that wandless magic was only possible if trained extensively during life. What remains of one's power after death is then sufficient.

This was a theory they couldn't test further: they didn't know any ghosts who had prepared themselves during their lifetimes. But it seemed a reasonable hypothesis to them, and Cuthbert threw himself into wandless magic with a vengeance.

This is how a third person became involved in their plans.

Cuthbert used to open doors wandlessly for Helena, out of politeness. And Helena would use doors rather than float through walls when she was with Cuthbert, out of equal politeness. But sometimes she would forget and float towards a wall. One evening, just to see whether he could, Cuthbert wandlessly opened a wall for her.

The effect was a bit like what you've seen in Diagon Alley, if you have ever been there. With one difference. In Diagon Alley, people are used to the wall, and as soon as they hear the first clicks they scurry away so as not to be hit by the stones.

In Hogwarts Castle, as soon as the Heads of House – very responsible people, all of them – hear something odd, they scurry _towards_ that place to investigate.

"My dear chap," said Cuthbert, aghast, when he saw Filius Flitwick sitting flat on the ground, clutching his nose, and cursing heartily. "I'm most frightfully sorry. Please do forgive me."

"Bloody hell," said Filius.

"Bloody you, rather," said Cuthbert the realist, and handed him a handkerchief. "And here's an iron key, put that on your neck. It's supposed to help."

"Bloody hell," said Filius again, and, after due consideration and a good look at the wall and Cuthbert's wandless hands, "Sweet screaming Merlin." Given Filius's own magical skills, that was quite a compliment, and Cuthbert took it as such.

The three of them ended up in Cuthbert's room for a round of cleaning spells, a stiff drink for Filius, and an explanation, for while Filius readily accepted Cuthbert's assurances that it would not happen again, he did want to know why it had happened in the first place.

Cuthbert put him in full possession of the facts, and from that moment on, three Ravenclaws pondered the problem of ghostly self-sufficiency. How would Cuthbert and Helena manage to keep their cottage in a decent state, and would it be possible for Helena to draw again?

At first, three Ravenclaw minds were not better than one. They went over every aspect, and still ended up with the same facts.

But then Filius had an inspiration. Unlike Cuthbert, Filius did love stories. He had read widely and deeply. Yet the book he came up with in the end was one he'd known from early childhood.

 _The Tales of Beadle the Bard_.

Did one of you say, " _Peverell Brothers_ "?

Very clever. Very clever, indeed.

"If the Deathly Hallows exist," said Filius, "if the Resurrection Stone exists, then for you it could be the solution. It would give you a more corporeal form than a ghost. It might strengthen your magic. Enable you to lift a wand, even. And a quill, too, Helena. And the two of you would not be miserable for being brought back in a world where you don't want to be, you would use it to get the very life you _do_ want, both of you."

There was no flaw in this reasoning. The was, however, a major setback: the notable absence of the Stone, which hadn't been seen in centuries. If it had ever existed at all.

Still, Cuthbert practiced wandless Accio'ing and turning around pebbles of varying sizes till he became expert at it. And they read everything there was to read about the Stone, for, as Cuthbert admitted freely, time was rather running out for him.

And then, one evening, Cuthbert fell asleep by the fire and woke up on some bench somewhere amidst clouds. "How very odd," was his first reaction.

"Good heavens, could this be …" was his second one.

Indeed, it was.

The clouds shaped themselves into a train platform. Cuthbert's bench stood against the wall of a station. _Of course,_ he thought. _I should have figured that one out myself._

And Cuthbert knew, he just _knew_ , that he shouldn't board the train but go back through the station.

So he did, and he woke up in his chair by the fire. It had all gone very well, and, as Helena had said, it had been very easy.

Cuthbert spent the next few hours in his chair, pondering this new situation and getting used to the idea. Then the bell rang for the first lesson of the day, and he got up and went to his classroom, for he was a thoughtful, conscientious man who felt that dying was no excuse for missing a class.

At the end of his lessons he had a meeting with Albus and Filius. I'll spare you the tedious minutes of that meeting. Suffice to say Albus was glad to keep Cuthbert on board as a teacher until a replacement could be found. "Sooner rather than later, please," said Cuthbert. "Helena and I will want to move out."

But.

The best-laid plans of mice and man …

Cuthbert and Helena found, to their dismay, that all the practicing had still not been enough. Cuthbert could turn the pages of a book, and he could mark tests, for he had done so wandlessly thousands of times. He could also turn a pebble.

What he could not do, however, were the house-cleaning and gardening spells. He either hadn't practiced them enough or they were beyond the possibilities of a ghost entirely. He didn't know which, and he couldn't find out.

The only way to know for sure would be to have a magical person practice those spells thousands of times during their life, and then ask them to turn into a ghost.

And for a proper, scientific fact one would have to replicate the experiment.

You will readily understand that this is not practical. Also, it wouldn't change a thing for Helena and Cuthbert. Facts are facts, and while Cuthbert's teaching salary had enabled him to buy a cottage, he did not have the means to engage live-in staff. Whatever maintenance the cottage had needed since he had bought it he had done himself, stopping by during every vacation to put the place to rights.

And there was the additional problem of an ending pension. At the time when Cuthbert, in Albus's words, _had continued his lessons differently_ , the problem of the pension had cropped up. Albus had been more than generous. "A man who teaches his classes should be paid for them, and we'll continue your salary in full," he had said. "Also, you're entitled to a pension. But the Board of Governors will not like the notion of paying this pension for all eternity – and I must say they do have a point, of sorts."

Cuthbert was the first to admit this was true.

In the end Albus came up with a pension scheme based on the average life expectancy of a wizard. He had, however, calculated this average by looking at the ten oldest wizards and witches known, "for Professor Binns has served us most loyally all his life and even beyond. And if he went so far beyond the call of duty, then we must not be ungenerous," he had said.

The Board of Governors had agreed. Boards usually agree to a proposal that is put before them just before lunch, when the tinkling of sherry glasses is already audible.

While all this was most satisfactory, it meant that at some point the pension would end. Cuthbert and Helena would have to be self-sufficient.

"Without that Resurrection Stone, we're helpless," sighed Cuthbert. "We're stuck. Oh, my dearest, all I ever wanted was to give you the life you deserve, and I've failed you."

"You have _not_ , said Helena. "All I ever wanted was you, and you're here. We'll find that Stone. Look at the bright side: we have all eternity to do it."

"Besides," said Filius when the couple told him they would be around for the foreseeable future, "these are dangerous times. I know you can't … erm … how shall I put it … you don't run the same risk we do, but Hogwarts is still the safest place possible."

For at the time of Cuthbert's death the mysterious disappearances and ominous signs that had been going on for some time had crystallized themselves: there was a Dark Wizard who had justifiable claims to the title of _Darkest Wizard of his Age_. In fact, he was already called _the_ darkest wizard ever, but people will do that, time and again. That last moniker is not a fact, it's a story, and its purpose is to turn the people who will inevitably, at some point, bring him down, into even greater heroes than they already are.

But I digress.

Cuthbert and Helena stayed at the castle, Cuthbert continued his lessons, Filius assisted them with practical matters, such as paying Cuthbert's salary into his Gringott's account. He even took over Cuthbert's task of executing the necessary maintenance spells for the couple's cottage.

And they investigated the Resurrection Stone. For nearly a quarter of a century they were unsuccessful. Then Helena, who often checked out Headmaster Dumbledore's office because Dumbledore had a finger in nearly every Wizarding pie, and his office was therefore an excellent place to look for information, found a new manuscript on the Hallows. And then another one. She read them eagerly and discussed them with Cuthbert.

They also discussed just why Dumbledore would take this sudden interest in the Hallows. The Elder wand, they thought. First and foremost the Elder wand. But also, perhaps, the Stone. Given that somewhere out there was a man who did not want to die, and who did not want to live as a ghost, either.

They did not bother with the cloak. Ghosts know a living body when they float through one, whether it wears the Cloak of Invisibility or not. Young Mister Potter had that Cloak, they had no doubts. In fact, they had celebrated the discovery with every possible pleasure they were capable of – again, I will respect the notion of Too Much Information – because the existence of the Cloak nearly guaranteed the existence of the other Hallows, including the Stone.

+O+O+O+O+

Then, one summer evening during the school holidays, Albus Dumbledore returned to the castle after an absence of several days. This was not unusual, of course.

The unusual bit was the sounds coming from his office later that night. Notably the blood-curdling scream. Not that Cuthbert's or Helena's blood curdled, for obvious reasons, but it did frighten them no end.

Then Severus Snape appeared. He spent a long time closeted with Dumbledore, and the next time Helena and Cuthbert saw the Headmaster, he had a blackened hand. And a ring with a black stone.

They discussed the matter at length. At first, their concern was all for Albus Dumbledore, who clearly had been in great danger. Both Cuthbert and Helena could recognise a dark curse when they saw one, and that hand was clearly proof of the darkest of magic. Dumbledore had fought it, of course – no-one in their right mind would suggest Albus Dumbledore had used the Dark Arts of his own, free will. That ring had nearly killed him.

"Thank heavens for Severus," said Helena. "What would have become of Albus – of all of us – if he hadn't been there?"

"True," said Cuthbert. "But that ring … such an ugly, black lump of a stone. And Albus always … erm … dresses with great care and effort." Cuthbert was a realist, but a kind one.

"He doesn't favour black," added Helena. "One for vivid colours, is Albus." She was one for vivid colours herself, and strongly approved of anyone who used them even though she did have opinions when it came to pleasing combinations.

"So why this sudden wish to wear that black rock?" Cuthbert and Helena looked at each other. Dark magic – very dark, for it had given the greatest wizard of his age a shrivelled wand-hand. Clearly, that ring needed to be examined.

That same night Helena went to Dumbledore's rooms. He was asleep. Fortunately he slept with one hand – _the_ hand – above his blankets. Did it hurt too much to have even the bed-covering lying on it? _That ring._ The damage it had done. Helena shuddered as she thought of it.

She examined the ring, which was a very old one judging from the design, and then the stone. It was engraved. She looked closer, and then she checked again and again. And hurried back to Cuthbert to tell him all. For the Stone – from that moment they would always think of it with a capital letter – the Stone sported the crest of arms of the Peverell family.

The next day Dumbledore went away again, and when he returned he told Cuthbert that Horace Slughorn would join the staff, and did Cuthbert remember him? Of course he did. Albus and Cuthbert chatted briefly of the old days, and of Horace's new job, and Cuthbert tut-tutted a bit when Albus told him Severus Snape would be teaching Defence against the Dark Arts that year.

"Albus, is this wise?" he even asked, for it was a fact that Severus Snape's potion brewing skills would continue to be necessary to Albus, with the hand and everything. And it was also a fact that the DADA position had little to recommend itself in terms of continuity.

"I know what I'm doing, dear fellow," said Albus. This was probably true. For the history I'm telling, however, the important thing about this conversation is that Cuthbert noticed Albus no longer wore the ring.

Helena, Cuthbert, and Filius discussed the situation. "We need a spy," said Helena.

"We need someone to find that ring and bring it to us," said Cuthbert.

"Have you considered," said Filius, "to ask Albus for it?"

They hadn't. But it was, of course, an excellent idea.

So Cuthbert made an appointment with Albus, "and I'm afraid I'll need rather a lot of time. It's a big favour I have to ask of you, and you need to know the full facts," he told him.

When Albus had heard everything I have just told you, he heaved a big sigh.

It said it all, really.

But Albus still explained to Cuthbert that he could not possibly give him the Stone, however sympathetic he was to Cuthbert's and Helena's plight. "If everything I think is true," he said, "and I'm fairly certain it is, then this Stone will have to play a very important part to end the current dreadful situation. I can't tell you more, not even within these walls."

"That's an insult!" said Phineas Black.

Albus sighed again.

In terms of revelations it was a small one, but Cuthbert still had a revelation.

"I always envied Albus," he told Helena later, "for working amidst eye-witnesses of Hogwarts history. I thought it would be fascinating to have those reports, however unreliable eye-witnesses can be. One would still hear their accounts, and if one is capable of separating the facts from the stories …

"But I realise now it isn't all joy. To have one's predecessors always around, commenting on everything you do … It must be trying. And unsettling, especially if one is still new to the job. Even Albus must have had his insecurities, during his first years as Headmaster."

"It's also a possibility," said Helena. "For us, I mean. You know, Dilys Derwent and I always got along very well. She heard the official stories of us, the ghosts I mean, when she became Headmistress. And she was the first one who thought about how I felt, who asked me whether I could live, or 'exist' as she kindly put it, in the same place as my murderer. And what should and could be done about that.

"I told her my full story, and she _believed_ me. She will help, I know she will."

That's how Cuthbert and Helena heard that on one wintry afternoon Albus had spent quite some time hiding the Stone in a Snitch and putting a great number of spells on it.

"I open at the Close?" asked Cuthbert. "What would that mean?"

Together they worked it out. _The Close_ had to be the end of You-Know-Who's reign. The Snitch would open then, and the Stone would be important to secure that end.

And Albus would not be present. For if he thought he would be there, the simple solution would be to continue wearing the ring. That way he would have the Stone literally to hand when it was needed.

The Snitch would be given to someone who _would_ be present at the close, and who had a thing about Quidditch in general and Snitches in particular.

The next step wasn't rocket science. It wasn't even wizardry.

When Harry Potter showed up at the castle, in the Ravenclaw common room of all places, Cuthbert kept a very close watch. As soon as he had heard the boy ask about the diadem, he fetched Helena. Together they made sure Harry could find Helena when he needed her, and she told him the story. The official one, of course. It was hardly the time or the place to bother the Chosen One with the full facts.

You all know how Harry found the diadem. But in all the confusion Cuthbert and Helena lost sight of him. They searched, frantically, and in the end Helena stayed in the Great Hall and Cuthbert went to the Headmaster's office – the two most likely places to find the boy again, they thought. In the Hall where his friends were fighting, or in the office to consult Albus's portrait.

When Harry finally left the Headmaster's office, white as a sheet and trembling all over, Cuthbert clung to him like a limpet. With great difficulty, too, as soon as Harry went outside towards the Forbidden Forest. All Cuthbert had to hold on to was the stone dust on Harry's clothes. But Cuthbert was a man on a mission, and he clung for dear life. So to speak.

+O+O+O+O+

"And I can't begin to tell you how sorry I felt for the poor lad," he told Helena and Filius afterwards. "There I was, hiding in his jumper, grasping his back."

Filius shivered involuntarily.

"Precisely," said Cuthbert. "Can you imagine how cold, how shivery, how downright uncomfortable you feel with a ghost hanging on your back? I was certain he'd notice. But he didn't, the poor devil. He was that afraid and stone-cold himself; he didn't even know I was there."

Filius shook his head and shivered again.

"I was glad he had the Stone," said Cuthbert. "I was glad of every little bit of comfort he could get from it. But I still kept my eyes wide open, and when Harry threw the Stone away – a very brave thing to do – I remembered the location like I've never remembered anything before."

"You certainly did," said Filius. "He went for it like a homing pigeon, Helena. Most impressive, considering how dark it was at the time."

"Well, you were wonderful, too," said Helena. "Finding it and _giving_ it to us. One of the Deathly Hallows. It's not every man who would hand over such a treasure."

"Harry was right when he threw the Stone away," said Filius. "It can bring no good to mortal men. If he had the courage to walk that walk and then to give up the Stone, then surely I can find it in me to hand it to you two. I'm just so damn glad it _worked_."

"So are we," said Helena. "Believe me, dear Filius, so are we. _Accio_ Firewhiskey." And she flicked her wand in the direction of the bottle of Ogden's Old on the side table.

"You'll have to pour yourself," she said. "Thank heavens we don't need to prepare food. But otherwise we manage just fine. This cottage is so lovely – Cuthbert chose exactly the right place for me. He even thought of a study with a north-facing window for my drawing."

"We would never, ever have made it here without your help, and that's a fact," said Cuthbert.

When Cuthbert Binns says something is a fact, you can be assured it is true. Cuthbert and Helena had really made it to their cottage. They did have bodies that were just about corporeal enough to use a wand and, in Helena's case, a quill.

It took them some time to work out how to do everything, and it took Helena some time before she had her old skills back – she hadn't used them for centuries. But time was one thing they had in unlimited quantities.

So this history ends with a statement that for once is not blatantly idiotic or simply not true: Cuthbert and Helena lived happily ever after.


End file.
